


The Other Side of Sacrifice

by Leonawriter



Series: Sombre Morrow verse [8]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, Missing Scenes, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-05 06:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18360518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonawriter/pseuds/Leonawriter
Summary: How do you cope with the loss of your entire timeline? As Genesis finds out, the earth-shattering and world-destroying events aren't the only things to cause him grief.Extra scenes from the "To Change A Sombre Morrow" fic, and canon to that 'verse.





	1. Change The Date

The hardest things about having found himself back in time were the obvious.

Much like a gaping wound, they drew attention; the way that Sephiroth had not yet become the monster that he had been forced to fight as an enemy that had no longer recognised him, Zack's youth, Angeal's presence in the world of the living... the very fact that Shinra existed at all, for him to still be a part of it.

But then, of course, there were the smaller things, which were much like a paper cut that was barely visible yet stung like blazes when touched.

...

Not all of the forms and filing were done electronically, just as they weren't some ten years or so in the future.

The first time he fills one out, he's almost disturbed by how he can still do it so easily even now, with so many years between this and when he'd last done paperwork for Shinra, and not Tifa, or Reeve's WRO. Then again, Shinra had comprised a large part of his life, of his childhood, and such things weren't forgotten so quickly or easily.

He checks it over again, to make sure that nothing is wrong - not that there should be, since it was only a minor report on the movements of monsters in and around the Plate - and it should have been, except...

As he scanned the page, he saw that he had made passing mentions to events that had happened in the past several years, papers that wouldn't yet be published, and places that didn't yet exist. 

_...furthermore, the population growth as compared to those seen in the ruins of Midgar..._

The words, black ink from a Shinra issue ballpoint pen on Shinra issue form paper, gazed accusingly back at him.

The date, in the top right hand corner, reads  _August 25th, 0011._

Genesis took the form and crumpled it in his hand, setting fire to it with a grimace before letting the ashes fall into the waste bin with no evidence left, the room now smelling faintly of smoke, and clenched his fist when the scent reminded him that this, too, was familiar.

Taking a breath and forcing himself to not do something he would regret to his room, his things - because this was his life now, this was the life he was stuck with - he took out a fresh form.

_August 25th, 0000-_

Again, he hesitated, unsure and uncertain. Took out his phone, opened it up, only to see the date and no year. Because who would forget the  _year?_  

 _Year zero, as it's now called in passing,_ he remembered saying to someone.  _That's when it all started. Not that they knew that when they restarted the calendar; Shinra only cared that they had finally won their war._

And as the war was not yet over, as Wutai was still fighting back... 

_August 25th, 2000._

It was strange, the difference the addition of one number could make. 

In a sense, it felt like the erasure of everything that he had ever done, that had been of value, no matter whether he had regretted them or not.


	2. Of Pain and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the first day/night of Genesis being back in time.

Degradation was at the same time a familiar friend, and an old foe.

_Clean the wound, wrap it, so that it would stay secure, and then be careful of using that affected area, that shoulder, for as long as able, so as to not worsen the injury._

He's halfway through before he remembers that he doesn't need to worry about the rest of his body, that dressing won't pull at his arms and legs, that he still has the energy not to fight himself into stretching and moving; he can already feel the exhaustion begin to creep in, as if the man-made fault in his genes that he has fallen back into recognises the pathways it should take, like water flowing into a ready-built canal.

In a moment of morbid thought, Genesis wonders if this means that he will die faster, this time-

-if that is what the Goddess  _wanted_ of him.

...

He stares up at the roof of his room from lying on his back, having changed the (old, new) wound's dressing in the relative privacy (hiding) of his locked bathroom, and remembers staring up at this same ceiling for weeks on end, wondering how he could change his fate, defy what had been done to him... wondering how he could possibly ever become used to the pain that he had done nothing to have thrust upon him.

He stares up at the roof, and remembers other rooms, other roofs, other places, other weathers.

Old buildings, places far from wandering eyes and the printed word and picture. Abandoned towns that no one even bothered with anymore. 

Blazing heat that made the pain-fever worse, sweat pouring into the open wounds and making them sting, making his hair stand on end. Biting cold, that made his joints ache and his feathers slow, and made him think of snow - white, and falling, and death.

Quickly built structures that would stand the test of time, for as long as they were needed. Pictures on walls of people he hadn't known, and then he had, and now he had lost.

There had been photos in his phone (upgraded, but the same number, as if that way he could keep one piece of his past alive that he actually wanted to keep, as if that way Angeal could call him the same way that the children spoke of this Aerith calling them, talking to them, even though he knows it's just a romantic's flight of fancy), but although his fingers flick through the contents, they're gone, because of course they are, because this is a past where those things haven't happened yet, might never, will never.

He flicks through the gallery, just to see what his past self had thought important enough to memorialise; not much, not really. 

One or two of himself. A few of LOVELESS avenue. 

He pauses on one that he had entirely forgotten, where Angeal and Sephiroth both seem to be laughing, and don't seem to know that their picture has been taken, and something catches in his throat, for a moment he wonders if some invisible hand has started to strangle him as he lies there, looking at the past that he had almost forgotten.

 _I must have deleted it,_ he realises.  _When Sephiroth told me to rot, when I left._ He had been angry enough to. A finality such as that, when he had been so desperate...

 _We were friends, once,_ he remembers telling someone. Perhaps many people, with how famous - or rather, now (then?), infamous - they had been. Shinra hadn't been able to erase  _everything_ , after all.  _Or at least, we thought we were._

It was easier than having to explain that he had been the one to drive wedges between them, to drive them apart, to force them all into fear and doubt and anger just as he had been hounded by his own.

 _We were friends,_ he reminds himself, and studies the photograph for the lines of Sephiroth's eyes that showed that he was, in fact, smiling and enjoying himself, the way that Angeal held himself loosely, relaxed as anyone who had been on the front lines of a war could be. 

 _We were friends,_ he thinks,  _and these are the same people I fought. These are the same people I..._

He wants, for a moment, to memorise the image in his mind, the same way that he has memorised the lines of LOVELESS, the mental images that the play gave him, rather than what any of the productions could attempt to create. 

Enhanced hearing picks up on a door being opened, boots coming off, a sword leant against a wall, and he's reminded of the fact that he isn't in Edge, he isn't in Seventh Heaven, he isn't in his apartment, he isn't just recovering from a temporary wound that would be gone by the morning. 

But he's also reminded that the past hasn't stayed static, and when he checks, the date stamp on the picture he had been staring at for so long says that it was only taken two months ago.

He lets his phone, picture still open, fall to the covers of the bed, and the back of his right hand reaches up to cover his eyes, despite there being no light to shield them from, this late at night.

 _We never made any oaths, together,_ he thinks to himself,  _but then, I always was the one who would do such things regardless of what anyone else said. And I still have promises to keep._

_Goddess, let me live long enough to keep them, at least._


	3. A Halo of Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I was intending to have these be mainly Genesis POV, but here's Vincent, and... anyone reading this has already definitely read ch.7 of the main fic, right? Good.
> 
> Because this side-chapter's on FIRE.

_"In essence, the mission is a simple one. We enter the reactor, we destroy what needs to be destroyed, and we leave."_

That was what Genesis had said, back before they'd headed up, just that morning.

_"There might be more people about in the daytime, but it's still less risky than night, when it becomes a beacon to everything on the horizon."_

Which Vincent had just nodded at, because if this had been a mission that he had been sent on as a Turk, then he would have considered the same things. Location, risk assessment, plausibility of cover-up. Capabilities of whoever he was partnered with, or if he was alone.

It was at times like those that he found it hard to question the still rather unbelievable story that Genesis had come out with; that he was a time traveller, someone from the future, there to prevent something horrific... which involved  _Sephiroth_ , somehow.

Most of the time, however, it was still hard to reconcile the idea with the vaguely immature, often rude, individual who had kicked open the lid of the coffin he had sealed himself in, and who had kept reciting poetry whenever the mood took him.

In the end, however, his personal opinions on the matter didn't count for much, as whether Genesis, a boy who had been created using similar, even if not the same means, as Sephiroth - since he knew enough that he had to be taken seriously, and more than anything... he  _understood._  

The claw of Vincent's gauntlet clicked relentlessly at the computer he was attempting to make work, forcing his way in using old codes that he was amazed still worked, that Veld hadn't changed long years ago.

Some part of him wondered if he should feel guilt over this, a breach of trust, a breach of his oaths to the Turks... and yet, Shinra had broken its ties with him the moment that Hojo had shot him in the heart. 

Perhaps it was another sin to add to his growing list, but with what was possible, even just from what he knew from direct experience - the way that Lucrecia had fallen ill - Jenova was  _dangerous_. 

The sound of metal against solid glass could still be heard from further in, and Vincent paused, wondering about the raised voice, an anger in it that he had seen glimpses of before but never to this degree, but ultimately decided not to move to see if anything was wrong, just yet.

It was just the two of them, after all, and Genesis could take care of himself. 

Perhaps this would even be good, he thought-

And yet, the shouting did not abate, and Vincent briefly closed his eyes at the memory of what the very man in that room, with that...  _virus_... had said that Jenova was capable of.

One more press of a button, and his job was done. For as much as he could do, with the new and updated systems that he could only barely recognise from around twenty years ago, of course, but it was still something.

Something metallic groaned further in, and his eyes narrowed, feet taking him into the inner chamber regardless of what the original plan had been.

Arrived in time to see glass shattering-

_"-You took my FUTURE from me, DAMN YOU."_

-and before he could open his mouth to speak, there was _fire_.

Materia had existed for as long as anyone could remember. They were the natural resources and memories of the Planet itself, after all. Vincent had used them before himself, even if not often, and he'd seen  _Fire_ used.

This... was like nothing he had ever seen before.

Genesis, still attacking the motionless form of Jenova, alternating between sword strikes and miniature explosions of fire, stood surrounded by the still-sparking wires that had once held the being that had been the crux of Hojo and Lucrecia's research in place, glass still falling in a glittering rain around him. 

Vincent's hearing could just about pick up the words of what had to be LOVELESS, recited with far more personal rage than he had previously thought possible.

Flames licked at all corners of the room, with the white heat centred around the man in the red coat, creating an ungodly halo. As if there were something positively  _inhuman_ about him, his anger-

(Something inside of him flickered briefly into awareness, unsettling him enough that it was all he could do to watch as yet more burned, yet more fell apart around them, as he stood frozen and afraid of what this other being inside of him could possibly want, could possibly do, if it was given control.

Genesis had said more than once that he knew exactly what Vincent was capable of, but no matter how often, for Vincent, that was all in the future, and none of it had happened, and he didn't  _know_ , how could he know, if any of these beings would do more harm than good.)

A bit of falling debris fell close enough to make him duck aside, a sharp breath enough to make him realise just how much  _smoke_ there was, and Genesis was  _still_ attacking the thing, even when the glass itself was melting.

Voice already hoarse from twenty years asleep, and now worse with smoke inhalation of his own, Vincent called out Genesis' name, knowing that he had to make this stop somehow, even if he hadn't been able to stop anything that had happened all those years ago, Genesis was here, and he had said that there was a point in  _trying._

The man. He realised, now, as he called out again, as Genesis' sword twitching, now, as he backed away somewhat from the remnants of the tank Jenova had been kept in, limbs seeming even from this distance to be weighted and heavy, turning around with none of the finesse that Vincent had started to become used to seeing, glowing eyes that seemed to simply stare without seeing, flickering a blue contrast with the red of the flames, while everything else was in darkness.

Genesis stumbled, once, then again, a cough wracking his body, and fell - and would have fallen further, harder, if Vincent hadn't caught him to make sure that he wouldn't wind up a red mess in the heart of the reactor, with all of his dreams come to nothing.

It was all Vincent could do to drag them both fully out of the reactor, pulling out the most powerful potion he could find, opening it up, and forcing it into the man's throat.

Certainly, it seemed as though there was nothing he could do, which did not create more sins by his own inaction; he should have moved faster, done something sooner... questioned the plan.

Always, it seemed, the same things, and as always, he was the one who came away relatively uninjured, safe and unhurt compared to those who suffered more.

Little of the colour returned to Genesis' face, despite the strength of the potion. He still felt worryingly  _still._

_I should have moved sooner,_ crossed Vincent's mind again.

He brought out another potion, this time using some on himself, knowing that he would have to carry the SOLDIER, and his sword to boot, back down the mountain somehow without being seen.

And yet... despite all of his concern for the man he was carrying, one thought made him stop in his tracks, the realisation something that hadn't truly felt  _real_ up until it hit him with all of the gravity of its weight.

_I wonder,_ that thought said,  _if with Jenova gone... that means that Lucrecia can... even if she's gone, perhaps... her son can still have a chance._

Her boy. Lucrecia's son. 

The same boy that Genesis had spoken of in passing, with both admiration and fear in equal measure. Who he had known,  _did know._

_If... there is one thing... that I hope might lighten my sins, it is that maybe... I could know that anything we've done today might have saved him, in some way._

Genesis' breathing wheezed, rattling in his chest, and Vincent found himself hoping that his one wish in the world didn't come at too great a cost.


End file.
